Emperor Norm
by Camwynya
Summary: A scene from the life of one of the Capital Wasteland's raider gangs.


In another world, a kinder world, someone with Norman's aptitude for numbers would have been snatched up by any one of a dozen accounting firms fresh out of high school, and become undisputed king of a cubicle farm that stretched as far as the eye could see. But that world ended a long, long time ago. The only thing a head for numbers was good for these days, other than decorating walls, was calculating odds and windage and distance to target. So there was no Norman Empire, Chief of Accounting for Chryslus International; instead there was Emperor Norm, chief of an up-and-coming gang of raiders based out of the Fairfax ruins. Tough job, and you'd wind up decorating four or five different fenceposts somewhere if you screwed up, but he was good at it.

Today was a day like any other, except for the clouds flowing in from the west. Norm didn't care for clouds on the rare occasions that he saw them. They meant rain, and rain meant property damage. The only thing allowed to damage property around here was_ him,_ and anyone else he gave the okay to. Acid water falling from the skies? Not cool. At all. The gang was already on edge what with Schiff being missing and a couple of dumbass mole rats getting into their supplies. Huddling under a roof somewhere until the water passed was just asking for trouble. He eyed the skies, calculated his odds, and made the decision: they'd go prowl down in the industrial ruins for a while. Some of those old factories had ghouls living under 'em. Those made for good shooting. It'd take the gang's edge off so they wouldn't be at each other's throats when the skies scabbed over.

"Hey, Emp!" called Fox, a skinny redhead with only a strip of hair down the middle of his otherwise shaved skull, called out. He had a pair of pre-war binoculars to his eyes; he'd found it in some kid's toychest years ago. "We got us some company."

"Yeah? Ghouls?" said Norm, reaching over his shoulder for his rifle. It was an old, old .32 caliber hunting rifle, and he loved it like nothing else in this world.

"Not unless the zombies started taking pets," Fox said, holding the binocs out. "Here, have a look."

Norm grabbed the binoculars and squinted through them. Sure enough, the figure trudging southwards along the bleached-grey stone of the old road wasn't alone; something maybe the size of a mole rat trotted alongside. "Huh," he said. "This could get interesting."

"Been a while since I shot anything smart," said Gardner, the shotgun-wielding girl at his elbow. "My skull collection's getting old. Dibs on the dog."

And dog it was. The two figures were just close enough for Norm to make that out now. "Fine," he said. "I want the- huh."

"What?" said Fox. "What 'huh'?"

"Would you look at that," Norm said, and held the binocs out to Fox. "Our friend here's wearin' power armor."

"O_ho_, so he is." Fox chuckled coarsely before passing them to Gardner. "Little Outcast traveling all alone, huh?"

"I don't think so, Fox," said Gardner. She had a scowl of concentration on her face. "I don't see any red paint on this one."

Fox wrinkled his nose. "Brotherhood?" he guessed. The word sounded as vulgar as any curse.

"Yyyyyyno," said Gardner slowly. "I don't see the gears, either…"

"Must've found the suit somewhere in the wastes," said Norm thoughtfully.

"Looks like it's our lucky day, then," said Fox, and started cracking his knuckles. "Time to go relieve our friend of his newfound burden, huh?"

"I dunno, Fox," said Norm. "Something here don't smell right. Gardner, gimme the binocs."

Gardner passed them over without a word. Norm raised them to his eyes, found the figure, peered more closely- **_"Shit!"_**

"What?" chorused both the others at once.

"Did you see the arm? It's wearing a damn Pip-Boy!"

"Huh? So?" said Fox. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, " said Gardner, who tended to catch on more quickly, "that we got a problem."

"A big one," Norm agreed. "Don't you listen to the radio, Fox? It's that bitch from Vault 101! The one Three Dog's always on about!"

"Didn't she fight a shitload of mutants or something?" said Fox. Under his usual coat of grime he was looking a little pale.

"And those whackjobs in Canterbury," said Gardner. "And like half of Talon Company."

_"Shiiiiiit."_ Fox fidgeted uncomfortably. "Maybe we better just-"

"Oop. We got us a new contender," Norm announced, and held out the binocs. "Check it out. Incoming Deathclaw."

"Five caps on the Vault bitch," said Gardner. "That Deathclaw doesn't stand a chance."

"You're on."

Norm waited for the first shot, calculating their chances of bringing either contender down after a pitched battle. That would be a hell of a story, all right.

"What the_ hell!"_ Fox exclaimed; there were bolts of green light flying instead of bullets. "What the hell kind of gun is_ that?"_

"I dunno, but I don't care." Gardner grinned. "You're gonna lo-oooose…"

"On the contrary," Norm said with a growl of frustration. He'd just felt a wet _plap! _against his bared shoulder. "It's rainin'."

"Aw, Emperor-"

"Don't you aw Emperor me, Gardner. We're going inside." He jerked his head towards a reasonably intact building not too far away. "I got enough burns on my back without adding acid rain burns to the bunch. We'll come back and look for the corpses later."

The storm, like any Wasteland storm, only lasted a few minutes. When they ventured out again, neither Wanderer nor Deathclaw was anywhere to be seen. Only a faintly glowing puddle of green goo remained.


End file.
